sun-warmed tomato off the windowsill behind the sink. She cut into it and seeds spilled out. "Hard to say."
"Coming to Florida?" suggested Debbi.
"Nah, the change had to come before the move. Otherwise he never would've made it south of Staten Island." She pointed toward a high shelf with her nose. "Grab that salad bowl, would ya?"
Reaching up, Debbi said, "I guess people have to get pretty fed up before they change, pretty sick and tired of not being happier."
"And they have to believe they could be happier," said Sandra.
She finished cutting the tomato, then tested an avocado with her thumbs. Debbi shredded romaine and looked out the window. She saw trees, light, air; the clean spaciousness sucked the deflating truth right out of her. Absently, she said, "Gino—Gino's never gonna change."
The avocado wasn't ripe enough, Sandra put it back on the sill. She bit her lip, weighed how far to get involved. She was chewing back the words So dump him, girl , when the doorbell rang. Glad to escape, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and went to answer it.
It was Bert the Shirt. His lean form was framed by glaring sunshine and he seemed to be fresh out of the shower; his white hair with its bronze and pinkish glints was brushed back in neat damp bundles. He was wearing a canary yellow pullover of polished Egyptian cotton and carrying his drowsy dog. "Hullo, Sandra," he said. "Your father-in-law around?"
"He's in the garden," Sandra said. "Puttering as usual. Come in."
She led the visitor through the living room, into the kitchen. He saw the food on the counter. "Hey, if you're having lunch, I'll come back—"
"Vincente's not eating," Sandra said. "Doesn't want to break off pruning. But Bert, say hello to Debbi. She's down here with Gino."
"Charmed," said the old mafioso, and he extended his hand. Debbi took it and smiled at him, but almost instantly her attention shifted to the dog.
"And who's this little fur face?" she asked.
"This?" said Bert. He put on a dismissive scowl and held the chihuahua away, as if it were a smelly little parcel he was taking to the trash. "This is Don Giovanni, world's oldest, laziest, most worthless dog. This is a rug-wetting curse from my late wife. This is a brainless four-legged bundle a aggra—"
"He has some problems, doesn't he?" said Debbi.
There was something in her tone that Bert had not expected, something knowing, serious. It instantly pulled him out of his old routine. "Yeah," he said. "He has some problems."
"Cataracts," said Debbi. "Probably arthritis."
Bert looked at her more closely. Red hair, probably perked up from a bottle. Long fingernails perfect as wax apples. Nose-cone boobs scoring a dramatic but temporary victory over gravity. So far, standard equipment for a woman traveling with the Ginos of this world. Still, there was something in the blue-green eyes that didn't fit the mold. Bimbos' eyes—you could look at them but never into them, they were blank and opaque, like the paint on a car. But Debbi's eyes invited you in; behind the colored part was a room as comfy as a paneled den. "He's got other problems too," confided Bert.
"Like what?" asked Debbi.
Bert glanced at the salad bowl, the glistening tomatoes. "You ladies are about to eat," he said. "It ain't the pleasantest subject."
"Tell me," Debbi said. "Maybe I can help."
Bert looked at his sneakers, pulled an earlobe. "Well," he said, "ya want the truth, he's constipated somethin' awful. I can't think the last time he had what you could call a successful walk."
"Poor puppy," Debbi said. She said it to the dog, and the dog lifted up its white and ancient head. It weakly shook its whiskers, a ray of hope seemed to flash in its milky eyes like dim lightning buried in the clouds. The pet groomer reached out and felt the creature's abdomen; it was hard and nubbly as a potato. "There a health food store around?" she asked.
The old mobster found the question droll. "Debbi, I live on meatballs, sausage. I
"Coming to Florida?" suggested Debbi.
"Nah, the change had to come before the move. Otherwise he never would've made it south of Staten Island." She pointed toward a high shelf with her nose. "Grab that salad bowl, would ya?"
Reaching up, Debbi said, "I guess people have to get pretty fed up before they change, pretty sick and tired of not being happier."
"And they have to believe they could be happier," said Sandra.
She finished cutting the tomato, then tested an avocado with her thumbs. Debbi shredded romaine and looked out the window. She saw trees, light, air; the clean spaciousness sucked the deflating truth right out of her. Absently, she said, "Gino—Gino's never gonna change."
The avocado wasn't ripe enough, Sandra put it back on the sill. She bit her lip, weighed how far to get involved. She was chewing back the words So dump him, girl , when the doorbell rang. Glad to escape, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and went to answer it.
It was Bert the Shirt. His lean form was framed by glaring sunshine and he seemed to be fresh out of the shower; his white hair with its bronze and pinkish glints was brushed back in neat damp bundles. He was wearing a canary yellow pullover of polished Egyptian cotton and carrying his drowsy dog. "Hullo, Sandra," he said. "Your father-in-law around?"
"He's in the garden," Sandra said. "Puttering as usual. Come in."
She led the visitor through the living room, into the kitchen. He saw the food on the counter. "Hey, if you're having lunch, I'll come back—"
"Vincente's not eating," Sandra said. "Doesn't want to break off pruning. But Bert, say hello to Debbi. She's down here with Gino."
"Charmed," said the old mafioso, and he extended his hand. Debbi took it and smiled at him, but almost instantly her attention shifted to the dog.
"And who's this little fur face?" she asked.
"This?" said Bert. He put on a dismissive scowl and held the chihuahua away, as if it were a smelly little parcel he was taking to the trash. "This is Don Giovanni, world's oldest, laziest, most worthless dog. This is a rug-wetting curse from my late wife. This is a brainless four-legged bundle a aggra—"
"He has some problems, doesn't he?" said Debbi.
There was something in her tone that Bert had not expected, something knowing, serious. It instantly pulled him out of his old routine. "Yeah," he said. "He has some problems."
"Cataracts," said Debbi. "Probably arthritis."
Bert looked at her more closely. Red hair, probably perked up from a bottle. Long fingernails perfect as wax apples. Nose-cone boobs scoring a dramatic but temporary victory over gravity. So far, standard equipment for a woman traveling with the Ginos of this world. Still, there was something in the blue-green eyes that didn't fit the mold. Bimbos' eyes—you could look at them but never into them, they were blank and opaque, like the paint on a car. But Debbi's eyes invited you in; behind the colored part was a room as comfy as a paneled den. "He's got other problems too," confided Bert.
"Like what?" asked Debbi.
Bert glanced at the salad bowl, the glistening tomatoes. "You ladies are about to eat," he said. "It ain't the pleasantest subject."
"Tell me," Debbi said. "Maybe I can help."
Bert looked at his sneakers, pulled an earlobe. "Well," he said, "ya want the truth, he's constipated somethin' awful. I can't think the last time he had what you could call a successful walk."
"Poor puppy," Debbi said. She said it to the dog, and the dog lifted up its white and ancient head. It weakly shook its whiskers, a ray of hope seemed to flash in its milky eyes like dim lightning buried in the clouds. The pet groomer reached out and felt the creature's abdomen; it was hard and nubbly as a potato. "There a health food store around?" she asked.
The old mobster found the question droll. "Debbi, I live on meatballs, sausage. I
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